The village was gone. The suspect, Ling, had hanged himself. Yet Captain Ji still had to continue the investigation.

The county bureau explained that back then, too many people had left their hometowns and never returned after seeing the world; some even died elsewhere. The First and Second Villages were left with only a few elderly residents. Eventually, the area was reorganized and merged with other villages into what is now called New Second Village.

Ji Chenjiao had no choice but to travel to New Second Village. It was a well-developed place, but after investigating, he found no one who still remembered Huang Xuntong. A local officer led him to a small courtyard and told him that an old village chief from the original Second Village lived there. The man was so old he was nearly senile, talking nonsense all day, but perhaps he was the only one who might still have some memory of Huang Xuntong.

It was a lazy spring afternoon in the countryside, with the sun shining warmly. The old village chief lay on a bamboo chair, his sallow face covered in wrinkles, looking like a piece of crumpled, over-twisted paper.

Ji Chenjiao tried talking to him, but the man didn’t respond. Ji Chenjiao asked what he’d eaten for lunch; he replied that he could beat up five fat boys by himself when he was a kid.

The local officer shrugged awkwardly and whispered, “He’s just old. Can’t help it.”

Suddenly, Ling Lie popped up, holding a bunch of foxtail grass. The old man’s clouded eyes seemed to focus, staring unblinking at him. Without saying a word, Ling Lie’s fingers moved deftly, quickly weaving a figure of Sun Wukong.

He waved the little grass Sun Wukong in front of the old chief. The man giggled and reached out to grab it.

Ling Lie held it back and made a white dragon horse. “Wanna have it?”

The old man nodded like a child.

Ling Lie pointed at Ji Chenjiao. “Then answer whatever he asks you, and I’ll make more for you.”

Ji Chenjiao found this ridiculous. The old man was over ninety—would he even understand?

But the old chief said, “Okay, okay.”

Ji Chenjiao: “…”

Ling Lie then handed over both the Sun Wukong and the white dragon horse and began weaving another.

Ji Chen repeated his original question: “Do you remember Huang Xuntong?”

The old chief’s speech was slurred and scattered, but by the time Ling Lie had finished his tenth butterfly, Ji Chenjiao managed to piece together fragments of Huang Xuntong’s past.

Huang Xuntong was an orphan abandoned by some family in the village. Granny Huang, who lived on the eastern side of the village, took pity on him and brought him home in the freezing winter, feeding him rice paste. He survived the heavy snow and was later officially registered as Granny Huang’s grandson.

When Huang Xuntong was in his teens, he could have gone to work elsewhere like other villagers, but Granny Huang had no one to take care of her, so he stayed. The old chief remembered this clearly—Huang Xuntong was an oddity since everyone else his age had left.

A few years later, Granny Huang got sick and needed money urgently. Huang Xuntong had no choice but to leave her in the care of neighbors and finally went out to work.

He sent money back every month, and Granny Huang managed to hang on for several more years. But one year—no one remembered exactly which—he suddenly stopped sending money. Granny Huang relied on village support. Her material needs were met, but she fell apart emotionally, crying day and night, and passed away not long after.

The old chief didn’t remember when Huang Xuntong lost contact, but village records could confirm Granny Huang’s death.

Fourteen years ago.

But Huang Xuntong had come alone to Xiarong City fifteen years ago! Life must’ve been hard for him in the big city, but there was no reason for him to stop caring about Granny Huang.

So what happened to him before he arrived in Xiarong?

The old chief started rambling again, and Ling Lie gave him all the grass figures he’d made.

Ji Chenjiao frowned as he looked out over the village’s low skyline, feeling like he was on the verge of uncovering something.

The old chief’s words might not be reliable, but with no one else who remembered Huang Xuntong, they had to treat his account as a vital clue.

If Huang Xuntong didn’t send money from Xiarong, then where was the last place he did?

The serious crimes team returned from New Second Village to Weitun County, where they had to stay the night. Ling Lie was still obsessed with weaving grass figures, and while Ji Chenjiao went to the local bank to check remittance records, Ling Lie had finished weaving a new little figure.

The records were incomplete, but they managed to find that on October 12, fifteen years ago, Huang Xuntong sent 300 yuan to Granny Huang from Luchang County, Tonghe City. That was the last recorded remittance.

Tonghe and Tiehe—just one character different. Two neighboring cities that had very different stories back then. Tonghe had rich resources, convenient transportation, booming industry, and had attracted a flood of migrant workers.

Ji Chenjiao decided to leave for Tonghe the next morning.

After a full day, the county bureau offered to treat the team to dinner. Ji Chenjiao refused and took the team to a roadside tofu-beef place instead.

On the walk back to the guesthouse, Ji Chenjiao finally noticed that Ling Lie had tied a little grass figure to his hair.

Ling Lie had long hair, usually tied with a rubber band. Now, with the green figure bobbing in the breeze, it was more eye-catching than a girl’s pink ribbon.

It was Ji Chenjiao’s first time seeing a man who didn’t mind wearing green on his head.

Ling Lie turned back. “Hmm?”

Ji Chenjiao’s hand itched, and he yanked the little figure off. “What is this?”

Ling Lie’s hair came loose and blew in the wind. It wasn’t some magical TV moment like flower petals in the air—it looked more like…

Ji Chenjiao thought, a lion dog happily running through the wind.

Ling Lie quickly tied his hair back. “Captain Ji, can’t you tell?”

Ji Chenjiao remembered the old man’s figures were all characters from Journey to the West. Seeing this figure’s round head, he guessed, “Sha Monk?”

Ling Lie: “Ji Chenjiao.”

This man always called him Captain Ji in a weird tone. Now he suddenly used his full name. Ji Chenjiao instinctively answered, only to realize Ling Lie meant the grass figure was named Ji Chenjiao.

“…”

Ling Lie: “Since you like it so much you snatched it from me, I’ll just give it to you.”

Ji Chenjiao tossed it back. It was just foxtail grass. Why would he care?

Though Ling Lie had decent craftsmanship, that green-headed thing—he didn’t want it.

Ling Lie chased after him. “Hey, acting like you don’t want it?”

Ji Chenjiao replied, “Why don’t you make one of yourself?”

Ling Lie agreed instantly. “Sure!”

Since Ji Chenjiao needed to keep an eye on him, the two naturally shared a room. The next morning, Ji Chenjiao woke to find a new grass figure on his pillow. It also had a round head, but this one had a small ponytail at the back.

This is it?

Ji Chenjiao’s lips curled into a smile. He was going to toss it but, after brushing his teeth, decided to keep it. Not knowing where else to put it, he slipped it into his sunglasses case.

From Tiehe City to Tonghe City and then to Luchang County, every required report and application had to be properly filed. The local county bureau was enthusiastic. When they heard Ji Chenjiao was investigating someone who might have worked there fifteen years ago, they brought in a retired officer.

The old officer took Ji Chenjiao around the town, proudly pointing out changes. “See these houses? We built them ourselves over ten years ago.”

Ji Chenjiao asked, “What kind of work did migrant laborers usually do?”

The officer replied, “Mostly construction. Hauling stones from the river. We’ve got plenty of building materials here. Laborers from elsewhere were cheaper, so they’d flock in whenever there was work.”

“Could you track who was hired?”

“No way. All off-the-books work—paid daily, no contracts.”

That made it hard to confirm whether Huang Xuntong was one of the workers. Ji Chenjiao switched tactics. “Do you remember anything unusual that happened fifteen years ago?”

The old officer thought hard. “There was a house fire. Whole family died. That count?”

A whole family? That had to be a major case. Ji Chenjiao asked urgently, “What happened?”

The officer nodded and began his tale.

Though it had been fifteen years, many in Luchang County still remembered the fire. First, because it was a small county, and the tragedy of an entire family burning to death was unforgettable. For a long time afterward, parents used the story to scare kids: “Still playing with fire? You’ll end up like the Wang family!”

Second, because the Wang family had been one of the wealthiest in town. They were among the first to build a large, sturdy, self-constructed house, which inspired many neighbors. They also owned storefronts and built rental housing in nearby villages.

The officer’s memories were fragmented, so Ji Chenjiao had him retrieve the old investigation files and death reports.

That was easy—the officer complied right away.

A thick stack of old documents was placed before Ji Chenjiao. Yellowed pages covered in dust, like time had settled upon them, waiting for someone to brush it away and uncover the buried truth.

Fifteen years ago, at dawn on October 19, a fire broke out at No. 21 Luguang Alley, Luchang County. A four-story house was engulfed in flames. When firefighters arrived and extinguished the fire, six charred bodies were found.

The extreme burning made forensic analysis very difficult. Experts from the city were called in and determined that five of the victims had skull fractures—killed by blunt force before being burned. One victim showed clear signs of dying in the fire, found closest to a window. He may have tried to escape the blaze but was ultimately burned alive.

The murder weapon, a household hammer, was found at the scene. Fire, acting as the ultimate cleanser, erased most evidence—no footprints, fingerprints, or signs of struggle could be recovered from the wreckage.

But through interviews, the police discovered a disturbing clue.

The Wang family registry listed five members: Wang Shun (53), his wife Luo Qun (54), their son Wang Qichao (25), daughter Wang Qili (23), and mother-in-law Ding Guifen (72).

But there was a sixth person—a young man also living with them at the time: Liu Yixiang, age 25, the son of Wang Shun’s sister.

Xiarong City.

Following Ji Chenjiao’s instructions, Liang Wenxian was investigating the original tenant of unit 4-2—Ji Ke, who had died three years ago. He learned that Ji Ke had worked as a tile factory salesperson, traveling widely across the south for years. The factory closed down eleven years ago. After that, Ji Ke, then older, finally settled in the city to enjoy retirement.

Fifteen years ago, Ji Ke had spent time in Luchang County, Tonghe City. That same year, he’d been awarded model worker status for his outstanding sales performance.